


this isn't "will they or won't they?" this is "i know they won't, and i know i don't want them to!"

by goodbyechunkylemonmilk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Belligerent Flirting, Daddy Issues, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Substance Abuse, canon-typical assholery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-03 22:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14005842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbyechunkylemonmilk/pseuds/goodbyechunkylemonmilk
Summary: Kavinsky looks like he's cast himself as the main character in a biopic about a model on a downswing, or like he's traveled back from a post-apocalyptic future to warn Declan that he's about to make a decision that dooms mankind. Declan could open the door despite his posturing, send him flying, but the only thing worse than a public liaison with the world's most obvious dirtbag is a fistfight with the same. He says instead, "Walk away or get in. You look like you're about to sell me some heroin cut with rat poison."Kavinsky asks, "Who says I'm not?" which is annoying, and leans in close to press the 'unlock' button on Declan's keys, which is annoying, and slides in right behind the driver's seat, which is incredibly fucking ominous. It's like he's going to pull some piano wire from his pocket any second now. Declan weighs this risk against the curious looks they're starting to attract and picks his life, but just barely.





	this isn't "will they or won't they?" this is "i know they won't, and i know i don't want them to!"

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for general Kavinsky creepiness but nothing outside of what already exists in canon.

The worst is over. That's become Declan's mantra of sorts, something he says to himself in the mirror every morning like some kind of headcase doing affirmations. I am beautiful, I am strong, I am no longer an amateur criminal mastermind with an illicit gun under the seat of my car. (He still has the gun, obviously, but it's registered now.) He can't really make himself believe it though, not for longer than five seconds at a time. He's still constantly looking over his shoulder, which is a good habit, actually, for an aspiring politician, so that's  _something_  he can say his dad gave him other than a lingering sense of inferiority and not even that much fucking money. 

So when he walks out of a building on campus and sees a man leaning on his car, arms crossed in the universal we-have-a-fucking-problem stance, his first thought is that someone didn't get the message, doesn't know the Lynch family has left the magical contraband game behind. Then he takes a breath, and looks again, and the looming hitman has turned into the skeezy cokehead who was always sniffing around Ronan in high school. Which is worse. It's very annoying that Declan's personal issues are all the sort of thing that can be solved by a bouquet of flowers or a changed phone number, yet he ends up dealing with all this high-stress spillover because Ronan inherited Niall's inability to problem-solve.

Kavinsky looks like he's cast himself as the main character in a biopic about a model on a downswing, or like he's traveled back from a post-apocalyptic future to warn Declan that he's about to make a decision that dooms mankind. Declan could open the door despite his posturing, send him flying, but the only thing worse than a public liaison with the world's most obvious dirtbag is a fistfight with the same. He says instead, "Walk away or get in. You look like you're about to sell me some heroin cut with rat poison."

Kavinsky asks, "Who says I'm not?" which is annoying, and leans in close to press the 'unlock' button on Declan's keys, which is annoying, and slides in right behind the driver's seat, which is incredibly fucking ominous. It's like he's going to pull some piano wire from his pocket any second now. Declan weighs this risk against the curious looks they're starting to attract and picks his life, but just barely.

"I'm not your chauffeur," he says, and tugs the door Kavinsky's just slammed open again. 

"Really?" Kavinsky's sprawled across the backseat and is making what must pass for fuck-me eyes in Jersey. "I heard that's what you moved here to do."

Declan sighs. He's less concerned about a potential homicide now, but he'll never recover if he backs down this early. "Just sit up front, man. I don't have time for this." That isn't strictly true; Declan has found that when he isn't trying to manage two phones and two lives and the ever-present threat of death for himself and everyone he cares about, school is almost laughably easy, even with an internship on top of it. His only outstanding obligation is to put in his weekly call to Ronan and get sent straight to voicemail.

"Sorry, Mom," Kavinsky says, stretching so that his shirt rides up. Declan rolls his eyes toward the overcast sky. He'd really hoped moving away would make his life less idiotic, but apparently the general absurdity of his brother and father transcends distance as well as death. Kavinsky hauls himself into the front seat by slinging one leg and then the other over the center console. Mud from one of his shoes ends up on the driver's side headrest. Declan made it through years of criminal activity without so much as manslaughtering anyone, so he closes his eyes and takes deep breaths until he stops thinking about what it cost to get his car detailed not even two weeks ago.

Declan has a favorite restaurant he takes potential business contacts to, and a favorite restaurant he takes girls to, and a favorite restaurant, which is just a diner where they serve surprisingly good coffee and never remember his face. He has a feeling he won't be returning to whatever establishment he chooses today, either out of shame or as mandated by law, so he picks an IHOP.

"I know the Lynch estate was never all  _that_ impressive, but taking a guest to a chain pancake joint? Pretty sad." Kavinsky leans forward to fiddle with the air vents as if Declan isn't pulling into a spot at that very second. " _Oh_ , is this like, the parking lot you turn tricks in? Gotta keep your brother in dykey Doc Martens somehow, right? That's cool, as long as I get to watch."

Declan slams the door, hard, when he gets out, which is the sort of performative misbehavior he's tried to leave behind with everything else that reminds him of Henrietta. Kavinsky smirks at him and somehow takes north of three minutes to get out of the car.

Once they're seated by a brusque, middle-aged woman who looks as deeply bored by them as Declan feels, Kavinsky opens his menu to the pancake page and says, "I'll have all of these. He's paying." He shuts it with a sticky snap and waves it in their waitress' general direction. "Thanks, babydoll."

She looks to Declan for confirmation, eyebrow raised, and he sighs. "I really and truly don't give a shit." 

When the food comes, Kavinsky takes one bite from every stack and then pushes the plates away. Declan catches one just before it lands in his lap. Looking down at the pool of strawberry syrup his thumb has landed in, he asks, "So what are you doing here? What is it you want?"

"I was in the neighborhood. I'm just being friendly, no need for the interrogation. I figured." Kavinsky sticks the straw from his syrupy, bright pink drink in his mouth and then draws it out slowly. "The least favorite Lynch brother was probably pretty lonely."

Declan rolls his eyes. If he were that easy to wound, he wouldn't still be around. "Look, is there someone you can call to retrieve you? A caretaker, or something? Maybe a parole officer?"

"Well, that isn't very classy. Betraying your roots once again, Lynch." Declan makes steady eye contact with a framed photo of a waffle. He can't think of anything more wildly undignified than being called low class by someone who is literally at that second excusing himself from the booth to, presumably, snort something off the rim of a toilet bowl.

He uses the brief moment of peace to comb his memories for someone he can contact, but everyone he can think of was at least as sketchy as his unwanted guest, and half have died under suspicious circumstances. He should probably be concerned by Kavinsky's unprecedented interest in him, but it's hard to feel threatened in a harshly-lit chain restaurant while staring down at the mangled remains of a pancake that once had maraschino cherries for eyes.

Kavinsky bowls over a busboy on his frenzied route back to the table and doesn't even seem to hear the clatter of dishes. "Miss me?" he asks as he slides back into his seat, apparently made ravenous by whatever it is he did in the bathroom. He reaches across the table to grab the pancake closest to Declan, splattering wilted whipped cream on his button-up, and rolls it up to cram into his mouth.

"Desperately." Declan looks at his twitchy fingers and blown-out pupils. "Do you plan on being sober enough to drive at any point tonight?"

Kavinsky  _hm_ s, like it's such a complicated question. He cocks his head and stares into space for a moment, making Declan wait for it before finally saying, "Doesn't sound like me." Something runs up the inside of Declan's calf. "I could get sober enough for...something else though."

Declan keeps his face carefully blank and summons the waitress to settle the bill, which is  _exorbitant_ _._ He tips generously to make up for the fact that she had to deal with Kavinsky, although no one's cutting hima check for the same. It was getting dark when they walked into the restaurant, and night has decisively fallen when they leave. Declan isn't going to send Kavinsky careening back to Henrietta with his eyes wide and unfocused, but he isn't stupid, either; letting Kavinsky into his car was enough of a risk. He really likes having an identity that hasn't been stolen and a bathroom that hasn't been turned into a mystical meth lab.

"If you don't have someone to pick you up..." Declan pauses, hoping for a quick resolution to this debacle. Kavinsky smiles over at him. "D.C. has plenty of reputable youth hostels. I'd be happy to get you set up at one."

"With all the rumors that went around about you, I thought you'd be more fun."

Declan says, "Yeah," says, "well." The tea he took one sip of has left his mouth coated in what tastes like dirt and lemon cleaner. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Oh, no worries. I'm sure you're used to letting people down by now." Kavinsky shrugs. "You know, my dad didn't love me either, and I turned out great. I got to kill mine, though." People like Kavinsky thrive on shock and attention, so Declan starts the car without reacting. "Does that scandalize you?"

"Not particularly. I would imagine it was cathartic." Declan wishes he weren't telling the truth, but the wide-eyed kid he used to be hardened a long time ago. "You're still not getting into my apartment."

Declan still takes sleeping pills most nights, but he has a feeling that he's going to need his wits about him, which means he's still up when Ronan returns his call. They get along now, in theory, but there have been too many punches thrown, too many harsh words spoken for things to go back to normal so quickly. So he calls Ronan once a week, and Ronan doesn't pick up, and Ronan calls back around two in the morning when he's guaranteed to be knocked out. They both get to feel like they're trying, but without all the tension of actually speaking to each other.

He answers without giving himself time to consider it, and Ronan says, "Oh shit." Which would be kind of a downer, actually, if he hadn't already had such an awful day.

"Thanks," he says flatly.

"Well, what happened to your nightly Ambien?"

Declan can feel a headache cresting against his temples. "I'm not going to defend my pharmaceutical decisions to someone who's accepted pills from the son of a two-bit mobster." He makes his voice artificially breezy. "Hey, speaking of! Guess who showed up in D.C. today?"

Ronan lets out a long, slow breath. "You're joking."

Declan rolls his eyes. He's been lying in bed half-praying for sleep, but he gets up, made even more restless by the stress in Ronan's voice. He goes to his kitchen and starts rummaging through the cabinets for something unhealthy. He figures after the years he spent constantly on edge, waiting to see what Ronan would do next, he's earned a tiny bit of posturing. Ronan must know that's what he's thinking, because he doesn't fold, doesn't ask if Declan's still there. He doesn't hang up, either, so maybe their relationship really is on the mend.

Declan finds a mostly empty bag of chips he bought to appease someone three girls ago. It's still good, which says something about either him or the overuse of preservatives. He puts Ronan on speaker and tips the chip shards into his mouth, saying while he chews, "Why would I joke about  _your_ coked-up ex-boyfriend? Why would that ever even occur to me?"

"Because you're a dick," Ronan says, lacking the heat he would have put behind it in high school. It's almost meaner that way, but Declan lets it slide. It occurs to him that since he isn't going to take a pill tonight, he can have a drink. Not that he never mixes the two, but he does like having a leg to stand on when he's being, to quote Ronan, "so fucking overbearing it's no wonder Ashley dumped him." Declan honestly thinks Ronan was more invested in that relationship than either of its participants. "Anyway, we never dated."

"Right, just like you and Gansey never dated. I have eyes." Declan pours some gin in a glass, considers doctoring it, and abruptly loses interest. "Whatever. Any reason for him to be roaming D.C.?"

"No idea. But you need to be careful. He's a dreamer, too, and he's dangerous." Declan bursts out laughing before he can help himself. He would ordinarily be annoyed by this sort of too-little-too-late approach to information-sharing, as well as the implication that Ronan knows  _anything_ he doesn't, but it's too absurd to hear this delivered like a revelation. Ronan makes a noise like a feral cat dunked in a bathtub. "Don't  _laugh_ at me, Declan.  I'm serious."

"No  _shit_ he's a dreamer. Ronan, you're the one who took classes with him; you thought he was fabricating wonder drugs in his spare time?  _This_ kid? Why do you think I wanted you to stay away from him?"

Ronan pauses. It's the kind of pause that probably means he's thinking about hanging up, changing his name, and disappearing. "Because he sold drugs."

"Ronan. I would have killed—actually murdered someone—in high school for your substance abuse to be my biggest problem."

"Fuck you, too, asshole. Maybe I'll get lucky and he'll take care of  _my_  biggest problem."

Then, with the impeccable dramatic timing of a narcissist with his ear pressed to the door, the tumblers in Declan's three locks turn audibly. The door doesn't open because he isn't a home security novice, but it jiggles in its frame. He checks the app playing footage from the camera mounted over his front door. Kavinsky looks somehow even more wan and fucked up than he did six hours ago. Declan wants to be concerned about how he found his (unlisted) address, but all he can muster is annoyance, as if self-preservation is a finite resource of which he's used more than his fair share.

"Asshole update: he's trying to break into my apartment."

"Shit," Ronan says with a surprising amount of feeling.

"I should deal with your ex. Text you if I'm not dead." Declan hangs up before he can hear Ronan ramp up into decent outrage. He cracks the door without taking off the chain, bracing one foot behind it so that when Kavinsky tries to push his way inside, nothing happens.

"You're paranoid, you know that? Very sad. You have to let people in, you know." He presses the flat of his hand to his chest. "In  _here."_ He moves it lower. "And in here."

"Right. Why aren't you at the hostel?"

"Something about a disturbance? I don't know, I was framed." Kavinsky leans in. His breath smells like tequila and something rotting-sweet that makes Declan think of death. "Are you going to invite me inside? Or are we doing this where your neighbors can hear?"

Maybe it's the dim safety lighting in the hall, or maybe just a side effect from whatever he's on, but Kavinsky looks somehow softer than he did before. Declan thinks of what he said earlier, about his dad not loving him. He thinks of what it would be like to have no one to call. He thinks of his sensitive documents and money hidden securely in a safe beneath his floorboards. Knowing it’s a mistake as he does it, he closes the door to release the chain. He leaves it like that for a second, reaching deep inside of himself for a burst of morality, or failing that, common sense. He should relock the door, maybe put something heavy in front of it, and take himself back to bed. He opens it instead, says with the last remaining shreds of his self-respect, "You're taking the couch."


End file.
